Onward Toward the Precipice “Perspective”

via Daily Prompt: Precipice

Jutting out like rocks stacked and

pointing to a rickety carriage

swirling downward like a Slip-N-Slide, eyes

glued to this

cemented relief of a mother

clutching a womb

left as a sling, a pile of fabric at year 3—

persistence beats out resistance every time

town tackled, crack spackled;

she is climbing the very rocks that she is made of.




9 am:

Going for breakfast, all by

myself, wallet out for the first

time in eight years, I realize I’ve

no clue where my favorite diner is.

Is it around the left corner, past

the little park with brick paths

and pretty

benches, littered with petals

from forever blooming cherry trees?

Or around the right,

down twenty-second,

across the street

from his favorite





to all of those girly magazines?  ughk… I’ll make a left.



Feeling awfully hungry now—

There weren’t any cherry trees,

no magazines.


9 pm:

Took a cab back home at 6; cost $50—

I really didn’t think I had walked so far;

Thank god there was some

of his mother’s leftover lasagna

in the freezer still.


10 am the Next Day:

Slept in later than usual today;

my body must have

needed that extra hour to

glue itself backtogether.  I think I’ll sleep in more often, and also:

I’ll sleep on his side of the bed tonight, maybe even in the middle,

limbs spread like wings,

head crowned in pillows—

all of the pillows—


10:30 am:

I ordered take out;

I swear to the God I’m not quite sure I can believe in that it rains every time I’m sad.

It’s like Mother Nature collaborated with Mother Theresa

and my own mother fucking mother to (all) kick me

while I’m down. And because I can’t quite tell

if any of them would care if I drowned, I walk through puddles,

metal chains clamped around my ankles, hoping I may wander

into a puddle deep enough to consume me—


and I mean all of me: all 120 pounds of contempt and a little extra baggage

on my shoulders. But I know that my life isn’t that Pulitzer Prize perfect

so when it rains, I go to the doctor because I’m sure to drown when it pours prescription pills, bottled in capsules solely for me—it’s the only thing

I can call my own. (I can’t even claim my own emotions).

Each pill takes them away from me, but the doctor says the little “B”

on them doesn’t stand for bad attitude [or even] bipolar

(I’m not sure if I’m okay with saying this aloud just yet)


He says it stands for “beautiful” because there’s no way I could be beautiful without them. Even my mother says so.